Impostor
by CreepingMuse
Summary: When Elena shows up on Damon's doorstep dressed like Katherine, he sees right through her curls and smirks but decides to play along. What's her game? How far will she go to keep the illusion alive?
1. Straight Laced

_Hey ya'all. Good to see you again. We're back with another little story-looking at about five chapters, I think, but we'll make every one count. _

_This story is a birthday gift for the lovely onerepublicgirl, who also gave me the idea. I hope it lives up to your expectations, babe. Happy birthday._

_Thanks to ElvishGrrl for betaing, and to all of you for reading. Please enjoy._

* * *

I check my shopping list one last time: Bourbon. Swiffer refills. Bleach. Scotch. Shampoo. Pop-Tarts

I'm forgetting something. What is it? It's driving me nuts. Don't need much food in the house now—no humans left- and I bought wood polish last week. I need a new case of high ball glasses, but can't get those at the grocery. I make a mental note to order more online. Dammit. I'll probably remember what I need when I'm on my way back from the store.

Isn't my life _glamorous? _Remember, kids: immortality isn't all orgies and blood baths. Only mostly.

Fuck it. I reach for my jacket and have one arm through the sleeve when I hear the front door creak open behind me. Why do people always come by when I'm trying to leave? I sat around all day, reading and re-alphabetizing the library, and no one would even return my calls. Well, they'll just have to make this quick; I need my cleaning supplies and booze, dammit.

"Let's make this a walk and talk." I finish sliding into my jacket and turn to the door. "I've got places to go, people to eat-" The words dribble off my lips. "Katherine."

She's just standing there, all curls and painted-on jeans, leaning on the door frame with a superior smirk. As always, she looks like the smartest girl in the room, like she knows all my secrets and is just waiting to reveal them one by one. Hell, that's probably true; she's always about five steps ahead. And of course she looks beautiful, even if that tight black t-shirt doesn't reveal _quite _as much cleavage as I'd like. But skin or no skin, Katherine always made evil look good. It was one of the things I loved most about her.

Loved. Emphasis on the _ed. _Seeing her, I don't feel much of anything. I'm glad she didn't get herself killed, but other than that? Her presence doesn't even piss me off (much) anymore. I'm mostly cautious, suspicious. Sure, we had a kind-of-sort-of-not-really truce, but Katherine is always dangerous and always has her own agenda. Every time I forget that, I pay a steep price.

"That's all I get? 'Katherine'?" She pouts, puckering her lips in a way I'm sure she thinks is charming. And okay, maybe it is a little, but not on a woman her age. Not on a woman of her unsurpassed bitchiness. "You're making me feel unloved, Damon."

No way in hell am I rising to _that _bait. "Luckily, you love yourself enough for the both of us," I answer. "What are you doing here?" I've got three guesses, but the first two don't count. She's here for Stefan. As in, "it was always." Huh. Guess I'm still a little bitter after all.

"Coast's clear, isn't it? Heard Klaus is dead once and for all." She steps into the house, wobbling a bit on those stilt-like stilettos. "I hear lots of other things are dead, too," she says with a twisted leer.

I take a step back. Not because I'm intimidated by her, but because you're an idiot if you let Katherine Pierce get too close. "You came to gloat because Elena's turned? I'm surprised, Katherine—I thought you'd be pissed. Gotta say, Elena might make a better vampire than you do."

She laughs, high and thin like a tightrope wire. "Please. I'm not worried about the competition. I'm sure my little doppelganger is still all kittens and daisies. Though- Hm." She pauses, head cocked to one side. "Does she _eat _kittens now, Damon?" She advances another step, watching me with bright, curious eyes. I frown.

Katherine's eyes are not bright—they're like black holes, sucking in all the light around them. And as for curious? Katherine's convinced she knows everything, so how can she wonder about anything? Katherine doesn't have that way of looking at everything like it's new, like she can see right into your heart and see things you swore didn't even exist. No, Katherine's never looked at anyone with that brightness and warmth. Sure as shit has never looked at _me _like that.

"Oh, don't pout; Stefan is _so _much better at it. And kittens aren't half bad in a pinch." She tosses her head, curls bouncing everywhere.

Watching that coquettish little head toss clinches it. It's such an _amateur _move. Katherine's been playing this game for half a millennium; her tactics are light years beyond _look at my shiny, shiny hair! _That move right there? Classic teenage girl, not vampy seductress.

Now I'm paying attention, looking for confirmation. And every single detail, from the smell of cucumber melon lotion to the way she's hugging herself with her arms to the way her gaze keeps falling to my mouth, it all points to one thing: Elena Gilbert. But Elena Gilbert wearing a metric ton of black eyeliner, wearing a shirt two sizes too small and a padded push-up bra that makes her boobs look two sizes too big.

What the hell?

None of it makes sense. But then, Elena's decisions have never been logical, and ever since The Night We Don't Talk About, they've only gotten weirder. Despite all the shit that went down that night, all the _letting go _and _never unfalling, _Elena didn't choose Stefan. Not really. Pretty much chose herself.

I expected them to be unbearably lovey dovey again, going on and on about how their epic love is now a forever love, but they aren't even together. As far as I can tell, she never even told Stefan she'd planned to choose him for all eternity (or until she died of a heart attack or cancer or Matt Donovan driving off a bridge, whichever came first). It's weird and I don't get it, but apparently I don't get a lot of things about Elena. And fuck if I'll ever tell Stefan. Not my business.

No, after she died, Elena pulled away from both of us. It wound up being Caroline she leaned on during her transition. And you know? That might have been a pretty good idea. While I still love her so much it could probably be labeled a mental illness, maybe what she needed was some time away from Salvatores. And Caroline isn't the worst vampire in the world, which is something I never thought I'd say.

She hasn't been around much, hasn't called much. And I've tried to be okay with that. She made it pretty clear how she felt about me, and even though Stefan and I wordlessly agreed that our previous agreement was null and fucking void in light of what he'd done, I've kept my distance. Tried to let her make her choice, whatever that is. But it's left the three of us in this holding pattern, all drifting in the same orbit but never touching.

And now here she is on my doorstep, smirking and wiggling and stretching her limited thespian skills to the max. All to convince me she's her own worst nightmare, that she's become Katherine fucking Pierce. Color me confused.

"Did you miss me that much? You're staring," she prods, tapping her foot. I blink. Yeah, I'm sure I was, because seriously, who _is _this girl and what is she doing here? This is a dangerous, fucked up little game. I need to snap out of it and hop five steps out ahead of her, because as twisted as her playact is, there's no way I'm telling her I've got her number. This is the most fun I've had in months. Not to mention the most I've seen her. I can't send her away just yet.

"Sorry. Just thought we'd seen the last of you. You did blow town like a _total _coward after Homecoming," I say. Keep it cool, Salvatore. Treat her like Katherine and don't be an idiot.

"Just looking out for myself. It's what I do best," she simpers. The girl is laying it on thick. It'd be hilarious if it weren't so weird.

"True. You know, people say you and Elena are a lot alike." I pause, watching the _oh shit _roll across her face before she gets it under control. I stifle a grin. "But I don't buy that. I mean, let's face it—you're the biggest self-preservationist in the world. No one is better at saving her own hide than you are. And no one's worse at it than Elena."

Okay, it's not very nice to taunt her directly to her face, but _God_damn, this is the girl who let herself die for her lethally boring ex-boyfriend. Someone has to tell her that it's not okay to roll over and die. Plus, I'm just not a very nice person.

To her credit, she stays in character better than I expected. Guess that bit part in the Mystic Falls High production of _The Crucible _paid off after all. The words must cut her, but she gives a humorless smile. "She thought she was doing the right thing for someone she loved." She seems to remember herself. "The little idiot," she adds without much conviction.

"Yeah, yeah. Unfortunately, Elena loves everyone and everything on the planet." Except me. "She'd have done the same for anyone while refusing to let them repay the favor. Or even understanding why they'd want to." I shrug. "That's Elena Gilbert for you. But you didn't come here to talk about her, did you?"

She licks her lips and looks up at me, expecting me to say something else. But I don't. She's taking the lead tonight; whatever she's looking for from me, I'm not going to make it easy on her. "Of course not." Her lips curl up into a cruel smirk and for just a second, she _is _Katherine. I don't like that. At all. She raises her face toward me, neck curved alluringly. "Where's Stefan?"

Oh, bitch. I narrow my eyes. "Out. Doing Stefan-y stuff—buying hair gel, saying Hail Marys; fuck if I know." Inspiration strikes. Okay. If she wants to play dirty, I can get down in the mud, too. "I was actually just on my way out for a bite." Or to go grocery shopping at nine p.m. On a Friday. I remember what I left off the list: paper towels. This? This is going to be much better. I smile too broadly. "You hungry, or do you want to wait for Sir Broods-A-Lot?"

She blinks at me, uncertain. "A bite? What, you're going to hold up a blood bank? I heard you'd gone soft, only drank the bagged stuff now." She's struggling to look disinterested. Failing.

"You've been misinformed," I say, shoving the shopping list into my jacket pocket. "I don't kill much anymore—not unless someone's _really _asking for it—but you know how it is. Sometimes you need the chase more than the blood. You taught me that."

She's going to give it up, isn't she? Going to sheepishly reveal herself as the straight-haired and straight-laced doppelganger, mutter that this was a bad idea and slink home with her tail between her legs. She's never actually going to hunt with me. No way. Not Elena. But she's nibbling on her lower lip and squinting at me. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was actually _considering _this. God, I want her to. I want to see what she's like on the prowl, see her when the blood takes over and pounds in her eyes and steals her thought.

I move toward her with measured steps until only the space of a breath separates us. "It'll be just like old times," I say softly. I'm stretching the truth; Katherine and I never hunted as equals. But even when I was still human, her excitement made me feel the blood lust just as strongly as she did. I dip my head, my lips brushing the shell of her ear."You and me in the darkness, listening to the same heartbeat. The way their blood runs faster when they finally see us, all fangs and blood, the way it feels to-"

She takes a stuttering step back, her hand fluttering to her chest like she's got the fucking vapors. "Yeah. I've got it," she gulps. I catch a glimpse of veins beneath her eyes, a flash of fang. "I mean, I remember. Let's do it. Like old times."

My eyebrows must disappear into my hairline in surprise. Never in my wildest dreams did I think she'd actually come. More than ever, I want to know what she's up to. And I fully intend to find out-_after_ we hunt. But...fuck, I'm such a pussy. "Sure you don't want to wait for Stefan? I'm sure baby brother will be back, nicely morose and ready to shut you down, any time now."

"I'm sure. Like you said, for old time's sake. There'll be time to see Stefan later." She nods firmly, as if convincing herself. Don't know what that's about, but I gave her an out. If she's in, so am I. I step aside and snap my heels together, giving my best Confederate officer bow. "After you, Miss Katherine."

She hesitates only a moment. Then she's heading out the door, pausing only long enough to let her fingers trail across my cheek. Any doubts I'd had about this doppelganger's identity disappear as soon as she touches me. As much as I loved Katherine, as good as the sex was (and it was _fantastic_), her touch never made me feel like my skin was full of lightning. No, only Elena could do that. Only Elena _can _do that.

As soon as we step onto the porch, two ridiculously tiny headlights turn into the drive. Stefan's home in his toy car. Great. He's going to ruin everything by calling her out. I remember when Stefan was fun. Sure, he was about twelve years old at the time, but I can promise you, he _was _fun once. But now? He'll scold Elena and send her home like a naughty toddler and I'll never get to see her with blood dripping from her fangs and lust dripping from her eyes.

My first instinct is to get out of here before Captain No Fun can spoil everything, but Elena's watching the car with rapt attention. Of course she is; she probably wants to see if Stefan's as big a schlub as I am, if he can see through her act. Fuck, for her it's probably another test. "Oh, Damon, I have to be with Stefan because he _sees _me for who I really am. Maybe if you'd _known _me first."

I swear, my life is a fucking broken record sometimes.

I fold my arms across my chest and wait for this all to play out to its predictable, depressing conclusion. Stefan unfolds himself from that clown car of his and marches toward us. Uh oh, this is serious—we're at three furrows on his forehead. "What is this?" he asks, his eyes scurrying between Elena and me. They settle on me, because obviously this is my fault. "What's she doing here?"

"_She _can talk, you know," Elena says with a flounce. "And it's good to see you, Stefan. I missed you." Her voice turns soft on that last bit. It didn't sound that way when she said the same mocking words to me. Of course. "I never unfell for him." Guess not. Even when she doesn't want to be with him, she still wants to be with him.

"Katherine," he says grimly. There's no hint of irony on his face, none of his normal twitchy tells that indicate he's on to her. Does he really not know? No. He's got to be playing her, too. Got to be. But that's not normally his style. Not with her. Or maybe he just needs to see a little more of Elena's Oscar-worthy performance; it took me a minute to figure it out, too. He'll get the picture soon. "Thanks for helping with the coffins; I owe you one for that. But unless you've come to collect on that debt, we have nothing to discuss."

He waits for her demand. But it doesn't come. "I came back to see you, Stefan. Don't you want to come with us? We were just about to go-" she fumbles over the vocabulary. Rookie mistake. Is it feeding, eating, drinking, hunting? "Out," she decides with an expression that's midway between a smile and a smirk. "Cause a little trouble, have a little fun. Don't you want to come?" She starts toward him, but he flinches back.

"No. Of course I don't. I just want you to leave, Katherine." Elena stares at him with round eyes, lips parted to speak words that don't come. He nods stiffly. "Make sure you two clean up your mess," he says with weary resignation. Then he disappears into the house.

We both watch him go, and I wonder who's more surprised at his lack of recognition. I don't get it. How can he not smell her, not hear her, not _see _that light in her eyes? It's so obvious. But then, Stefan's always seen what he expected to see. I just thought that when it came to her, it might be different. But maybe Stef's got other things on his mind, maybe there's a good excuse. Whatever the reason he couldn't see past the eyeliner and sluttiness, it's hitting Elena hard. She's looking after him with studied blankness bordering on shell shock.

"Katherine-" Oh, forget it. It's not worth it, not worth the hurt this is causing her just so I can see what kind of vampire she makes. We'll abort mission and both pretend this adventure in idiocy never happened. I fling one arm toward the house, toward him. "Do you want to-"

"No. I want to go hunting." Her eyes are wide; her voice is thick. "I want to find something to eat and tear it open and leave a _mess _for Stefan to clean up." She turns to me, hands balled into trembling fists at her sides. "Can you help me with that, Damon?"

This girl is all Gilbert steel tempered in Petrova fire. I'd almost forgotten. In so many ways, she's the more dangerous doppelganger. I have to remember that going forward. Because we _are _going forward.

Even though I know our hunting expedition is going to end badly, if I let her wander off on her own with all this anger and hurt and confusion, it'll end worse for some poor jogger or stranded motorist. I won't put her through that. I started this, and now I have to finish it. I want to finish it.

I offer her my arm. She takes it and we walk into the night. "Let's get messy."


	2. Harmless Fun

_Wow. Thank you so, so much for your incredibly kind reviews, alerts, favorites, and messages. Genuinely, they make my day, and I can't thank you enough. Thanks also go to ElvishGrrl for her beta services. Make sure you pop over and read her "Find the River," which is set to wrap up soon in what I'm sure will be spectacular fashion._

_To my fellow Americans, happy Fourth of July (And happy belated Canada Day and early Bastille Day, and whatever else I'm missing). To the rest of you, happy reading. _

* * *

"Keep up, Grandma," Damon calls over his shoulder. He's loping along at a relentless pace, silent and graceful while I bumble along behind him, desperately trying to seem like a strong, sexy old bitch of a vampire instead of a two-month-old weakling.

"These shoes aren't exactly made for hiking," I grumble. The five-inch stilettos were ridiculous when I was just standing around; now they're certifiably insane. But in my defense, when I got dressed, hunting wasn't on the agenda. Don't really know what _was _on the agenda, but it wasn't this.

Damon makes an abrupt about-face and prowls toward me. I stop, uncertain. What did I do? Something I said, something I did, the way I move? Did something give me away? No, I can't think like that. Fake it 'til you make it, right? I'm fine, he doesn't suspect anything. Channel your inner bitch goddess.

I tap my foot, schooling my face into lines of boredom as I wait for him to say something. But he doesn't. He stalks around me in a languid circle. His eyes are all over me, starting at those stupid shoes and winding up my body. I already feel self-conscious enough in these clothes, but with the way he's looking at me, I might as well be naked. I want to squirm, want to hide. But instead I jut one hip out, put my hands on my waist, and let him look. I hope he doesn't see the tremor in my hands, doesn't hear the hitch in my breath. But he's engrossed in his tour of my body. I think I'm safe. I hope I'm safe.

He finishes his survey and stops in front of me. With his usual disregard for personal space, we're only a hand span apart. "Maybe not practical, but they do _great _things for your ass."

I can't help but smile. It's such classic Damon. At least _he's _been predictable tonight, even if Stefan wasn't. After all, Damon's been fooled by Katherine before, so I assumed I could convince him. But I was so sure Stefan would see through me. I thought...I thought if anyone in the world could see who I really was, it would be him. As much as I wanted to pull this charade off, part of me hoped, wanted, _needed _Stefan to look at me and know me. After all, he's the one I chose, right? He's the love of my life, isn't he? If even he doesn't know who I am now, how on earth can I know?

I give myself a shake. Stefan's gone. Not here. You got what you wanted, Gilbert—you pulled it off. You're Katherine Pierce for the night, so you'd better start acting like it. I twist the smile into a smirk. "I know," I say in what I hope is a sultry purr.

Damon rolls his eyes, but there's a grin playing around his lips. "Your modesty never ceases to amaze me. If we've sufficiently established that you're the hottest piece of ass on the Eastern seaboard, let's pick up the pace. We're almost there." Quick as a snake, one arm curls around my waist and squeezes my ass before he _whooshes _off into the trees.

A startled laugh claws its way from my throat. It's an unfamiliar sound; I can't remember the last time I heard it. I should probably be pissed at him for getting handsy, but...no one touches me anymore. Some of it's my fault, since I pushed Damon and Stefan away (_didn't push, _ran_, ran away_)_,_ but the humans treat me like I'm dangerous now—which they should- and even Caroline keeps her distance. And besides, it was harmless fun, just a little naughty. Everything I wanted out of parading around in these curls.

I dart after him, the heels slowing me down only slightly. I don't have any idea where we're going, but I'm good at following a trail now. If I can stalk a squirrel for miles through the undergrowth, I can follow his woodsmoke and leather and bourbon scent anywhere. I open myself up and _run. _

So far, this is the only good thing about being a vampire. Running fast and free in the night, the world a blur around me, my thoughts a blur within me. It's the only time I feel whole, when everything goes so fast and so slow. There's only the ground beneath my feet, the wind against my cheek, the smell of my quarry.

I can't quite catch Damon, but I see him ahead of me, darker than the night. He bursts out of the cover of the forest and I skid to a stop beside him, exhilarated and a little dizzy from our run. Maybe this was a good idea after all. This was what I needed. Just to run, just to feel, not to think. For one night, I need not to think. And Damon's always been able to do that to me, to shut my brain down until I exist only in instinct and emotion and action. For the first time in a long time, I'm excited.

Not to mention hungry.

I get my bearings. We're on the outskirts of town, a remote patch of Route 4. This time of night, it's eerily quiet—not a car in sight.

"Little different from the last time we hunted." The last time? Uh oh. "They've paved the old cart path, of course, but the trick still works. Get the cars coming out of the curve-" he points to a hairpin turn a hundred feet down the road, "-and they come screeching to a stop. And if they don't, well, getting run over by a car is way better than getting run over by a carriage. Fucking hooves are _sharp_."

Crap crap crap. What's he talking about? I thought we'd—I don't know—go to a bar or something and pick up drunks, like he and Stefan did that night outside the Grill. But he's going to do...what exactly? Obviously I'm supposed to remember, but I can't figure out what the trick is. Then he ambles to the middle of the empty road and stretches out, his head pillowed on one arm.

Oh. _Oh_. I put the pieces together. This is something Katherine taught him? Typical. It's disgusting, preying on people who are trying to do the right thing. The worst people will just drive on. This way, you only get good people. Big-hearted people, pumping all that blood around and around...

He sits up on his elbows. "Well? You coming? I know we didn't normally do it tandem, but hey, variety's the spice of life." He beckons me toward him. "We'll pretend to be a massacre. It'll be fun." His smile is wild.

I feel a low ache at my throat, my wrists, between my legs. I step onto the road, keenly aware of the unnatural silence of the forest, of Damon's faint heartbeat, of the distant hum of traffic. Soon one of those cars will turn toward us, see us lying in the road and stop. And then...

I should go home and content myself with bagged blood for strength and squirrels and rabbits for the thrill of the hunt. They satisfy my need to destroy, and that's been fine these last few months. It's hard enough killing animals, but this will be a thousand times worse.

This will be a thousand times better.

I lay beside him. He eases back onto the pavement. "These were always good hunting grounds. I'm surprised you remember," I say. I hope I sound like I have any idea what the hell I'm talking about.

"Could hardly forget. You were a good teacher." I feel his smile more than I see it. "Wouldn't be the man I am today without your _expert_ guidance." There's only a whisper of sadness in his words, but no self-pity. And that's the saddest part of all.

"You turned out okay, Damon. Despite my best efforts, you turned out okay," I say. More than okay.

"Not sure that's a compliment, coming from you," he says suspiciously. Smart man.

I shrug. "Think what you want. You always do." We lay in silence, watching the stars. There are so many more stars now than there were before. Whole galaxies I never knew existed.

"Why did you come back?" His eyes are still fixed on the distant constellations. "Why now? For Stefan? He still loves her. In his inept, bumbling, _epic _way, he'll always love her."

There's the question, isn't it? Why am I doing this? Why am I pretending to be _her_ and screwing around with Damon in the middle of this road when I could be myself, curled in Stefan's arms forever?

But I'm _not _myself. I haven't been since that night. The night I died. It's so strange to even think those words, but they're true. I died in the cold water under Wickery Bridge. The worst part is, it was a relief.

I wasn't suicidal; I didn't want to die. If I could replay that night, I'd do a lot of things differently. But I don't regret my ultimate choice. I chose to let Stefan save Matt. I chose to let that water embrace me, chose to close my eyes and know that my death would save the people I loved. What's one little doppelganger in exchange for the lives of Stefan and Damon and Caroline and every other vampire Alaric (_not Alaric, it wasn't Alaric_) would have killed? I didn't want to die, but if I had to, I knew that the people I loved would survive, and I'd get to see the other half of my family. Mom, Dad, Jenna, Ric. Even John. They'd all be waiting for me. And it'd be okay.

I made my peace with the world that night. Then I woke up, wanting things I couldn't name, hungry for things I shouldn't want. But even that was only a small part of the horror of that night.

It didn't hit me until after I drank the blood Stefan offered me, his eyes dark in a crumpled face. As the brutal joy from the blood faded, I realized there was never going to be an end for me. I'm going to have to live and fight and feel and struggle—not just for sixty years, not just for a normal human life span, but for a thousand years, ten thousand years. And that knowledge made me feel a thousand times colder than that water under the bridge. I haven't felt warm since.

I haven't _felt _since.

Everyone says that after you turn, your emotions get ramped up and you turn into a horny, hungry, raging, emotional mess. And while I'm constantly starving (_starving to fuck and feed and _destroy), the rest of it never happened.

Before, I lived in vibrant color. I loved and hurt with all my heart. It sucked sometimes, but it was real. It was _me. _But now? Life has switched to black and white. There are echoes of things I once felt—I care for my friends, I miss Ric, I love Stefan (_and Damon_)_-_those things still exist. But they're not as real. _I'm _not as real. Things that seemed to matter once, things like choosing a brother and being in epic romantic love, all matter less. So I let it all drift away so I could focus on surviving, one second at a time.

"I know Stefan loves her. She doesn't deserve it, but he loves her," I say. At least that much is true.

"Not your call. Or hers, for that matter. Love doesn't give a fuck what we deserve." He nudges my leg with his own. "If it did, no one ever would have fallen in love with you, _Katherine." _He stresses the name, says it like it's important, but I don't know why. I'm not going to think about it. I'm trying not to think at all. "And you didn't answer my question. You know that Stefan is never going to fall into your clutches, so why are you here?"

Because I'm afraid I came back with a broken switch and will never feel anything ever again. Because I can't spend the next _forever _empty and lost. Because I can't feel as Elena, because I don't even know who Elena is anymore. And I thought that if, just for one night, I could be someone else, have people look at me with new eyes, look at _myself _with new eyes, maybe I could remember how to live. Because I want to cause a little mischief, be a little bad, see if there are any differences left between doppelgangers. Because I miss Stefan and Damon, but can't come crawling back either one of them after everything I've done.

There are a million reasons I'm here, none of which make any sense, even to me. None of which I can tell him. Or anyone. I have to be strong for them, can't let them see how I'm barely holding onto myself, just waiting to fall. I can't fall. For their sake, I can't fall.

"I needed a new direction." At least that's not a total lie. That makes it a little easier. "Klaus is dead. Running from him has been my life for five hundred years. It felt right to come back here and figure out where to go next. And with things on the rocks between Stefan and Elena, I thought that maybe-"

"What makes you think things are on the rocks with Stefan and Elena?"

Dammit. Things were going so well. Sure, maybe he looked at me a little strangely at the boarding house, maybe he's been surprisingly gentle with Katherine—with me- but I'm pretty sure I have him fooled. I can't blow it now by knowing things I shouldn't. It's okay. I can fix this. "He was coming home by himself, no sign of the little goody-two-shoes. If everything was peaches and cream, they'd be spending the night together in blissful boredom." Good. That sounds like Katherine. Mean and cruel and missing the point. I've got this. "Am I wrong?"

"You'd have to ask her." He raises a hand to the sky, traces Orion with the tip of a finger, the stick-like head, the sweep of the Hunter's belt. "Haven't seen much of her. Which, I get it. If she wants to be with him, she has to let me go." He sighs and drops his hand to the ground inches from mine. "I know that. But I miss her. As infuriating as she is, after everything she's done, I still miss her." He turns to face me, eyes unexpectedly solemn.

Why is he telling me this? It doesn't matter. I can't go back to him. Not after I left him to die alone and broken-hearted. Even if he could forgive me, there's no way I could forgive myself. Even if I wanted him, even if I realized that things have changed and things are different and _I'm _different, it's too much to overcome.

"If you still miss her after all that, then you're as dumb as your brother," I say. My voice is harsh and rough. Good.

I sit up, hugging my knees to my chest. "This is stupid. Just because it worked a hundred and fifty years ago doesn't mean it still works now. No one's coming." This was a horrible idea. Pretending to be Katherine, hunting, being with him...we'll just add this one to the very long list of my failed plans.

"No need to get your panties in a twist just because I mentioned your better half."

"What makes her the better half? She's just like me now. A vampire. A _monster_," I spit. "There's no difference, Damon. Your precious Elena is the same as me." And there it is. The ugly truth, staring me right in the face. We're the same. Maybe we always have been, with our same face and our same love (_same loves_)_._ But now, there's no doubt.

Damon sits up, arms draped over his knees. I feel his eyes on me, but I keep my gaze fixed on the curved sliver of moon. "You've always shared genetics. Now you share biology, too. But you don't share a soul. Elena, for all her faults—and believe me, there are plenty—is good to her very bones. Even when it's impossible, even when it's stupid, Elena tries to do good. Doesn't always get it right, but she tries. That's the difference, and it matters a thousand times more than the similarities."

I finally look at him, stunned by his soft words, and a spark of _something _leaps between us, but before I can even begin to make sense of it all, we freeze. There, in the distance, the unmistakable whine of a motorcycle.

It's coming right for us.

We collapse to the ground like we've been shot. I sprawl awkwardly, half of my back resting on his chest. I should move and get off him but I can't because I already see the single headlight barreling toward us like a freight train. I squeeze my eyes shut, my sluggish blood pounding hard at my pulse points, that familiar throb that means hunger now.

I don't know what I'm doing. What the hell am I doing? This guy is going to come up to us and I'm just going to...bite him? Like that's okay? Or Damon's going to bite him? How does this work? How am I going to pull this off at all, let alone as her? And if I do it, doesn't that mean that everything Damon just said, everything I want to believe, is a lie?

Maybe everything Damon said about Elena is true. But tonight, I'm _not _Elena.

We must look like roadkill, but I guess that's the point. The bike slows, then stops. Boots scuff on the pavement. I stifle a moan as my fangs erupt, every muscle in my body coiled like a snake. Even if I don't know what to do, my body does.

"Wait for it. Wait for it," Damon whispers. The footsteps halt.

"Ya'all okay?" It's a woman. Maybe forty, judging by the pack-a-day rasp to her voice. I hear the blood struggle to run through her veins, her heartbeat smashing into me, faster and faster every second. "Course they ain't okay, they're layin' in the road. Shit." She fumbles for her cell phone.

"Now," I say.

Damon spirits behind the woman, wrapping an arm around her waist. It looks like a tender gesture, but she might as well be caught in a steel trap. I loom in front of her, and she takes one look at Katherine's face (_my face, it's my face_) and screams, the shrill cry bouncing off the trees.

"Don't be afraid," Damon says soothingly. He must be talking to the woman, but his eyes are locked on me. It's odd, but I'm distracted by the way the woman's pulse trembles at her throat, just above the collar of her denim jacket.

"Don't lie to her." I stroke the woman's cheek, trailing my fingers down over her chin, down to rest at that whimpering heartbeat. "You should be _terrified._"

I tell myself I'm playing the part, tell myself this is what Katherine would say. But it's a lie. I want this woman's fear, want her breath to come in sharp gasps and her pupils to dilate and blood to race through her veins. I know it's wrong (_I'm wrong_), but I want her fear. I want it all. Her horrified gasp is beautiful. She's beautiful because she's mine.

"Now, now, it's not nice to play with your food. Do it," Damon breathes.

It. The thing I've fought so hard _not _to do, the reason Jeremy had to live with Matt for the first month of my new life, the reason I scrounge after animals in the woods, just so I can feel that moment of rage and joy as a tiny heart ceases to beat. I shouldn't want this. It's not me. Whoever I am, this isn't it.

I stumble back a step, but my eyes are still fastened on her throat. "I...you take this one. I'll wait for the next." I can't do this. This is a woman, a woman with a family and a life, a woman who was kind enough (_and stupid enough_) to stop for two morons sprawled in the road.

"There's plenty to go around, Katherine. We'll share." He presses forward, pushing the woman in front of him. The world is getting smaller and smaller, focused on the quiver of her jugular. I can see the web of blood under her skin, blue veins and red, red arteries.

"Please. I don't mean nobody no harm. Please, just-" the words die on the woman's lips as Damon's fangs sink into her neck. The smell of her blood crashes into me; it smells like rust, like chocolate, like rotting meat, like all the galaxies whirling overhead. Damon moans against her neck, eyes fluttering closed, arms crushing the woman against his body. The world is so small. Just a single heartbeat.

I tear at the woman's neck, clumsy and desperate to get rid of all this skin, get to what I need. She screams, her horror pushing the blood closer and closer to the surface until it springs free, hot and bitter, hot and sweet.

Damon wraps his arms around both of us, gripping the small of my back, the woman crushed between us. I hardly notice. Thought is gone; reason is dead. I am need. I am hunger.

We drink forever, our mouths pulling in time with the woman's heart, the only sound our lips against the gushing wounds, our grunts and squeals. The blood grows thicker as the prey's heart slows, but I know there's more.

The arms that hold me are gone, and the sudden absence makes the prey slump to the ground. No. Not prey. A woman.

She's not moving.

I stare at Damon and he's staring back at me just as hard, his human face already back in place, though his eyes glow with triumph and his cheeks are flushed with stolen blood. Her blood. I stare down at her, a hand fluttering to my stained lips.

"Everything's fine-" he starts, kneeling beside the woman, but I don't let him finish.

There's a rushing in my ears. When I speak, my voice is so far away, the words flat and meaningless. "She's dead."


	3. Meat

_Thanks are in order to ElvishGrrl for the beta, and to all of you for being generally awesome. Thank you._

* * *

Baby vampires are so fucking melodramatic. For the first decade, it's all, "I will make it an eternity of misery!" and, "Oh God, dinner's dead!"

She's not dead.

I know exactly what happened—Elena got caught up in the pounding of her own heart, the fucking _life _racing through her, and missed the woman's faint but very present heartbeat. It happens; I once had a guy dig his way out of a shallow grave after I "killed" him. I never made that mistake again. I doubt she will, either.

But hey, I'll be her training wheels and get her through these inevitable early-stage fuckups. It was hard enough getting her to drink, to let herself go and understand that this is what she was made for. I really thought she was going to turn tail and run at the beginning. But once I grazed the woman's neck with my fangs, just enough to get the blood flowing, it was all over for Elena. Then it was a matter of slobbering on the woman's neck (if I'd actually drunk from her, we _would _be progressing to the body disposal phase of the evening) and trying not to come in my pants while Elena gorged herself stupid.

If I hadn't been there, there's no doubt Elena would have drained the woman dry. But then, if I hadn't been there, Elena probably wouldn't have been drinking at all. So, Catch-22. At any rate, once I heard the rattle in the woman's breathing, the hitch in her heartbeat, I let her fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes before Elena could drain her to the dregs.

For the tiniest fraction of a second, I considered not stopping her. I wanted Elena to feel that orgasmic ferocity as the heart gives its final beat, wanted to take this prey together and fuck like animals next to the cooling corpse.

As much as I want to give her the full vampire experience, I can't do that to her. Hell, this bitch isn't even dead and Elena's eyes are so wide I think they might pop out and roll around on the ground. But more than that, maybe some tiny, pathetic part of me needs for Elena not to cross that final bridge, needs her to stay human and good, down under all the fangs. So the biker lives to ride another day.

This is the moment when I should call her Elena, should take her in my arms and promise her that I will fix this, that everything is going to be okay and I will never, ever let her fall off the edge of the world. Hell, it's what I _want _to do. I want to give her everything, protect her from the thing that bumps in the night, even if that thing is her.

But that's the worst thing I could do. I can't act like this is a big deal, like she has anything to be sorry about. She didn't do anything wrong. This is life—this can and should be _her _life. Coddling her now, pretending she isn't a vampire and that this isn't who she _is_, that's what'll get us another ripper. And I can't stand to spend a century trying to piece her back together.

No, Elena doesn't need soft words and reassurances. What Elena needs is to accept that this happened, it was amazing, and then she made a simple, understandable mistake. She needs to learn from it and let it make her stronger instead of letting it catapult her back into grief and self-loathing.

I flip the woman over. She gives a hissing moan. Elena jumps, those ridiculous heels skittering on the blacktop. I swallow a laugh.

"Cute, Katherine. I remember when you pulled that joke the first time. Freaked me out but good." I keep my voice bored. And really, this part would be deathly boring, if not for Elena's presence. It's no more exciting or disturbing than paying for groceries. "I think we were right here, weren't we?" I bite through the thin skin of my wrist and jam it against the woman's mouth. Once I've got that working away, I finally glance up at Elena.

She's got her fingers hooked over her bottom lip. Everything's stained with blood—her chin, her hands, her shirt. Her eyes are round coins as she stares down at the body, desperately trying to make sense of the situation.

I've never seen her look so beautiful.

"I...yes. I remember," she says faintly. I can practically see her pulling herself back together, struggling to put her Katherine mask back on. She drops her hand, squares her shoulders. She pushes a few curls out of her face (some are plastered to her cheek with blood and _holy fuck_). Yeah, she needs to believe in her performance as much as she needs me to, or else she'd realize how transparent she is. But she's trying. If pretending is what gets her through this, teaches her how to deal? Then God bless Katherine Pierce. Just this once. "I really got you that time." She manages a trembling smirk.

The woman moans again, which seems to reassure Elena. Good girl. She's got this. Maybe she can see that this isn't so bad (that this is fucking incredible). I hate to think of her living half a life, always denying herself the thing she wants most. I know she's strong enough to do this. And honestly, she makes a hell of a vampire.

With my free hand, I reach into my jacket pocket and produce a handkerchief-never go hunting without one, kids. I toss it to her, and she snatches it from the air. "Jokes about murder never get old," I smarm. Besides, that's my shtick.

"You used to think it was funny." She wipes at the blood staining the lower half of her face. I'm almost sorry to see it go. She crouches beside me, watching with birdlike interest as the biker starts to stir, gulping down big mouthfuls of delicious, delicious vampire blood.

"Yeah, well, then I found out what a pain it is to hide bodies. God help us if anyone ever dredges the quarry." The woman grabs my wrist, which is my cue. "Easy, tiger." I pull her up into a sitting position. I resist the urge to scratch as my skin knits back together; itches like a motherfucker every time. "You wanna do the honors, Katherine?"

There's a flash of scarlet in her eyes. A handful of veins snake their way down her cheeks. Shit, she's ready for round two already? I shift to block her line of attack. If she goes again, this woman is dead. Period.

But in the next instant, she's back to normal, her cheeks flushed, her gigantic cow eyes shining with barely-controlled excitement. She licks her lips. "You seem to have this under control," she says. "Go for it, stud."

_Stud? _Really, Elena? My lips twitch a little, but I force myself to heave a put-upon sign. "Make me do all the work," I grumble.

The woman's eyes are a dusty, weary brown. She already wants to believe what I have to tell her, wants to believe there's some logical explanation for this. There isn't, but there will be.

"You took that corner too fast and wiped out over in those bushes." I wave my hand in the general direction of the shrubbery. "You got lucky, but it rattled your birdcage a little. You're fine, but to be on the safe side, you're gonna stop by CVS on your way home and pick up some iron supplements, which you'll take religiously for the next week. While you're there, you're going to pick up a nicotine patch."

"A nicotine patch?" Elena asks, puzzled.

"Yeah, she tasted like a fucking ashtray." Elena's not discriminating enough to tell the difference yet—in those early days it all tastes like stars and sex. But I have standards. "Think of it as my good deed for the vampire community. Now unless you want to finish up?" Elena motions for me to continue. I look back to the woman. "You never saw either of us. Do you understand what happened and what you're going to do?"

She nods. The gesture is almost grateful. "I dunno what the hell I was thinkin', takin' the turn like that."

"Pretty stupid," I commiserate. "You should be more careful. Oh, yeah, and try not to die in the next couple days."

"That's always my plan. Sometimes just don't work out too well." She pushes herself to her feet, reeling a bit, but she recovers and shuffles for her bike.

There's a breeze and Elena blocks her path. I tense, but there are no fangs, no veins. I'll let this play out for a minute, though I've got no clue what she's up to.

The two women stare at each other for an endless moment, both still as statues. Then, tenderly, Elena reaches out with that dirty handkerchief. With sure movements, she cleans the blood from the woman's neck. Once the last trace has disappeared, she smooths the woman's frizzed, bleached hair, rests her hand on the woman's cheek. "Thank you."

I was wrong. _This _is Elena at her most beautiful, her most basic. Gentle and fierce, predator and savior—there's no contradiction. It's all her and it's all real.

God, I love her. Stupidly, masochistically, I love her. No matter what happens, I want to remember her like this always.

The woman gives a vague smile and Elena nods. We step out of the road and the bike roars off.

We walk through the forest with no destination, no haste. It's so quiet here, only the rustle of animals as they scurry away from us, the flushed beat of Elena's heart.

"I was just covering our tracks," Elena says, as if that explains her un-Katherine-like behavior. I'd almost buy it, if she hadn't thanked the woman, hadn't been so damn...well, so damn Elena. "She couldn't walk into the drugstore dripping blood. Someone would have asked questions, and-"

"No, it was a smart move." I should've thought of it myself. Sloppy, Salvatore. Good thing you had Elena Gilbert looking out for you (the fuck?).

"I occasionally have good ideas," she prisses. I can't help but laugh.

"Every now and then, you're pretty okay," I say. "And as much as it pains me to admit it, Katherine, you looked good out there. You looked _right_."

She stops, wrapping her arms around herself like she's cold. I wonder why she still does that when she'll never be cold again. "It felt right. I didn't think it would-" she bobbles, realizing she's dug herself a hole. I love watching her try to dig out. This is the best game _ever_. "-you know, hunting with you again after all these years. But it did. You and me, doing that together? Yeah. It felt good, Damon."

I can't help but be pleased with myself. It worked. She survived a real hunt. Well, quasi-real hunt. The important parts were real. Even after her little freak out, she still admits that it felt good. Hallelujah. "You aren't the _worst _hunting partner in the world," I tease, giving her shoulder a light punch.

"Neither are you, asshole." She runs her hands through her curls, staring up at the slices of night sky visible through the thick tree cover. Then she turns to me and smiles the saddest smile I've ever seen. "I forgot how good we are together."

I start to agree with her. When the chips were down, Elena and I always managed to get the job done.

Except.

Except the one time I needed her. The only time that really matters-when she couldn't love me, could only muster enough giving-a-shitness to _care _about me. The smile bleeds off my lips. Fine. She wants to play this game? I'll fucking play. Let her see what Katherine's Damon looked like, in all his miserable glory. Let her see where love gets you—where it got me.

I round on her. She retreats until her back hits a fat oak tree. "Bullshit. We were only good together in one way, Katherine." There's a smear of blood on her cheek, almost to her ear. How the fuck did she even manage to get it there? I press close.

"Don't be this way, Damon. What are you doing?" she asks. I can see the wheels turning in her head, see her sorting through options as she searches my face. But in the end, her eyes wind up where they always do: staring at my lips. Because that's all I am, right? Just a fucking piece of meat to these doppelgangers. Dead or alive, that's all they want me for.

"I'm reminding you of how it really was." I lick that rusty patch on her cheek. It tastes like ashes, and isn't that an apt fucking metaphor? When love consumes you, ashes are all that's left. "You only _wanted _me in one way," I growl.

She quivers like a mouse under me, and I know the game's almost over. Fuck it, worst game _ever_. Stupid, stupid idea letting it go this far. I was doing okay without her. I missed her, but I was moving on. Now I remember every goddamn thing I love and every fucking thing I hate about her, and we're right back to where we started. Or at least I am. Fuck if I know where _she _is.

I'm all ready to storm away dramatically, but then someone moves, and I'm not sure if she kisses me or I kiss her, but I _definitely _slip her tongue first because why not? What do I have to lose? Either she runs away like she always does, or else...well, maybe this isn't the way I wanted her, but if this is all I can have, maybe it's enough. Maybe it can be enough.

She pulls back and we both gasp for breath we don't need. "Not the only way, Damon. Never the only way." Is she still Katherine? Who's talking? I don't have the slightest fucking clue. I tell myself it doesn't matter.

We crash together again. She struggles for control, nips at my lips, forces her own tongue into my mouth. I'm caught off guard by her aggression, but fuck this noise. We're playing by my rules. I press myself against her. Let her see exactly what she's done to me, and exactly what I'm going to do to her. Watching her hunt has already given me blue balls to end all blue balls, and her trying to suck my face off isn't helping the situation.

There's a flash of hesitation, a second where she tries to scramble backward and put some space between us, but there's nowhere to go; she can only arch up on her tiptoes which just puts her in better position, really.

Then some tension breaks and she pushes right back, her chest molding against mine, hips giving a reflexive buck. And she's making this sound, this rough little sound in the back of her throat that just about undoes me. She tastes like blood; she smells like sex. It's just like...

It _is_ Elena, isn't it? Of course it is; I remember the head toss, remember how she was Florence fucking Nightingale with her prey. But my head is swimming and everything is familiar and new and right and wrong. But it's her. I know it's her.

I kiss down her neck—I _bite _down her neck, leaving bruises every place my mouth touches, each one blooming and fading in seconds. I palm one of her soft tits—the perfect handful. There's that sound again, something primal and hardwired to every one of my nerves.

Any minute now, she's gonna run, just streak out of here and never look back. Or shove me away, all righteous indignation and "you're better than this!"

There's a tremor as her hand slides between our bodies, but hell if she doesn't still make a beeline for the painfully hard bulge in my jeans. I hiss against her as she strokes me, kneads her fingers across my dick.

This was not going how I envisioned it. But I'll be damned if I back down first. And anyway, there's not a snowball's chance in hell that Elena Gilbert will let _me_ fuck her against a tree in the middle of the woods. Right? Right.

I drag her hand away from my cock. She fights me (like she could win) until I nudge her legs apart and slide my thigh between them. Sure, it's an old trick, but some things are classics for a reason. She seems to appreciate it, rubbing against me like a cat in heat. Sounds about like one, too. Then she reaches for my fly again.

Shit. She's not backing down.

Well, neither am I. This is what I want. Ever since I laid eyes on this girl, I've wanted to do this. So what if I have to call her Katherine? So what if she'll pretend this never happened, just like she's pretending _we _never happened? So what if I'll spend forever replaying this night over and over in my head, wishing it had been real? I'm doing this. I'll pound her into this tree until she bleeds, until she screams my name and forgets her own. I'm all set to use her, to let her use me, until I make the mistake of looking at her.

I have never seen eyes so empty. Not Stefan's in the heat of a binge, not Katherine's at her worst, not even my own. Never. And to see that crushing nothingness where usually there's too much grief and love and fucking _moxie_, to see her so lost? It'd break my Grinch-like heart if she wasn't trying to fill that gaping void inside her with my dick.

I can't do it. Call me a pussy, call me sentimental, but I can't do it. Not like this. Not with her. With any other woman on the face of the earth, I wouldn't hesitate. But I can't do it with the husk of the girl I love. _What happened to her? _How could I miss it before? Congratufuckinglations, Damon—you saw through her Katherine act, only to miss the bigger picture. _Moron_.

I smash her wrist against the tree. She gasps and gives this simpering giggle, eyes still hollow. I feel sick. "You want it rough, Damon? Is that what you want?"

That answers that question—she's still playing. But I'm done. "No, _Elena, _I want to know what the fuck is wrong with you."


	4. Nothing

_Whew! Sorry it took so long guys, but I had that pesky real life thing going on this week and then I wanted this chapter to be just right for you. I hope it was worth the wait._

_If you enjoy this chapter, you really should thank JWAB. She **destroyed** it, helped me gut it and stitch it back together, made me be more creative with word choice, smarter about structure, and bolder with characters. Girl, I hope this chapter gives you ALL the verbgasms. And writers, if you aren't working with a beta, you're missing out. Find a beta who cares enough to tell you you suck (nicely, preferably), and you won't just become a better writer-you might just become a better person, too._

_Anyway. We're in the homestretch-one more to go after this. So let's get to it._

* * *

It's over. He knows. And now it doesn't matter how close I was to remembering, how close I was to _feeling_, because it's over and he's furious and my world's back to gray.

I have to try one more time. Maybe I can still fix this. I need him to believe just for a little longer, until I can figure out why, for a single second, the world was right again. _I _was right again.

I force a laugh, but even I know it's off-key. I smooth my hand—the one he doesn't have squashed against the tree- across his chest. "Oh, please, Damon. Like Elena would ever-"

Before I can decide what I would never, he's got that hand pinned, too. The bark scrapes away the top layer of my skin; it writhes back together. "Don't you fucking dare," he warns. He's still pressed against me, our noses practically touching, a lot of other stuff actually touching. He's shaking—he's that pissed at me. I can't even remember the last time I saw him so mad (_Steel slab at my back. Wet and scared, cold and hungry, smell of formaldehyde and death. Shouting, fists on flesh. Blue eyes too wide, hands trembling as he holds out the blood bag. He tries to smile for me, but it dies_).

"I let you have your fun, but I draw the line at being your fucking dildo. I don't give a shit how horny you are—this isn't you." He's so right and so wrong. Our make-out session isn't me (_who?_)_,_ but it wasn't about sex, either.

That's a lie; everything with Damon is about sex, and if he hadn't stopped me, I'm positive I'd be somewhere between orgasms two and three right now. But it wasn't only, or even _mostly, _about sex_._ Before we started going at it, when we were talking and teasing like we used to, when he flashed me that genuine smile (_the one he saves only for me_), when I remembered how good we were together, the world hurricaned wonderfully and terribly out of control.

It was all back. Every speck of happiness, joy, lust (_love_), compassion, sorrow, terror, and rage I'd ever felt (_felt with him_) exploded, all bleeding together in a whirling mess. It was all _too—_too painful, too fast, too much, and oh God, is this what vampires feel? Is this what I'm supposed to feel all the time? I wanted to scream and laugh and sob at the same time. I never wanted it to end.

It lasted less than a heartbeat. Brutal calm returned.

Before I could even wrap my head around the mind-warping insanity, before I could trace it back to its source and figure out how to make it come back, Damon turned on me. He was so mad and I didn't know why, but then he was so close and I couldn't think. All I knew was that I had to find that whirlwind of emotion again (_the one he made me feel, the one he's always made me feel_), and he was so close and maybe if I kept going, kept trying, that feeling (_feeling!_) would come back.

But kissing him (_almost fucking him_) didn't work. Oh, it was good. Our bodies just fit. But it wasn't enough; it wasn't what I needed. But I'd take the friction and the touch and the hope of something more over the emptiness.

Then, nothing. Just his anger and my blankness. I don't understand. If I'd had a minute more, a little more time to think, to put the pieces together and understand why the world cracked open and everything I've been missing cascaded in at once, I could have found my way back to myself (_to him_)_._ But it's over and I don't know why. All I know is that the awesome storm of feeling is gone, maybe for good.

All the confidence, all the Katherine-ness, dribbles out of me until all that's left is the gnawing numbness I know so well. I slump, but I can't go far with both my arms pinned.

"Well?" he demands. I can't look at him. There's a freckle of blood on his collar; I stare at that instead. Anything to avoid looking into those livid eyes.

He jerks me away from the tree, gripping my forearms. Bruises form like bracelets. "I've got all night, all day, all fuckin' year," he says. "But today or next week, you're gonna tell me what's wrong with you."

What's wrong is that things were finally right and I don't understand why and now I have to explain why I lied to him, why I would have fucked him against that damn tree just on the off chance I could feel again. He won't understand. No one could understand.

Slowly, inch by inch, I raise my eyes to his face. There's too much blue to his eyes, pupils constricted to pinpricks, brows drawn together in fury and disgust. He hates me (_he loves me_), but I have to ask. "How did you know?"

He snorts in disgust. "You're not exactly Meryl Streep, Elena."

"But how did you _know_?" It shouldn't matter, but it does. I have to know. "Did I not kiss like her, talk like her? Was I not sexy enough, bitchy enough? Was-"

"It has nothing to do with what you _weren't_," he interrupts. "Though we seriously need to work on your flirting skills. But that's not the point." He lets go of one of my arms, brushes a thumb across my cheek. "No matter how cunty you tried to be, how _Katherine _you tried to be, you can't hide all that irritating Elena Gilbert curiosity and life. I'd know you anywhere." A flash of something sharp and bright brushes against me, but then it's gone. His smirk's back. "But hey, don't feel bad. You had me going for a good two minutes back at the boarding house."

I jolt. Two minutes? No. _No. _It's not possible he knew all along, that he played me, led me on. There's no way he saw me that fast when Stefan didn't know me at all. "I don't believe you. You only figured it out at the end," I say. I can't believe him. If he knew me, when Stefan didn't, when no one did, that means...I don't know what it means. Nothing (_everything_).

"You're right, Elena. Obviously I would take Katherine, who I _loathe_, on a hunting trip. Clearly I would need to explain the basic mechanics of hunting to a five-hundred-year-old killing machine. And of course Katherine, the bitch who would eat an entire orphanage just because she was feeling peckish, would thank a woman for her blood donation." The anger in his voice eases a fraction. "Sure, Katherine would want me to know that I turned out okay, that she never just wanted me for my body, even when she was shoving her tongue down my throat. Yeah, bravura performance, Elena. Masterclass shit."

Oh. God. He knew. Our conversation in the road, everything he said, about how he missed me-he wasn't confiding in Katherine, he was telling me. When he let the woman fall, he wasn't being clumsy, he was saving me from my own all-consuming hunger. And when he kissed me, he was kissing _me_. Every step of the way, he knew me. And Stefan didn't.

So Damon knew. I'm dealing with that; I've dealt with it. It just means he's a jerk who led me on instead of telling me what a lousy actress I am and stopping this before it went too far. "You knew and you kept going anyway? Even knowing who I was, you just kept pushing me to hunt, to do all those things?"

"Are you kidding me?" he asks incredulously. "You're giving _me_ shit because I showed you how good it feels to be who you really are? You lost your right to moral indignation the minute you turned on the curling iron."

I want to be mad at him (_I want to be _anything _with him_), but that stops me. He's right. Without my even knowing, without saying a word, he showed me how to be something new: how to be a good person and a vampire, how to hurt as little as possible and live as much as possible. I'll always remember that. Maybe—even if I can't remember how to feel, maybe I can at least find some comfort in blood, in hunting.

"I'm not giving you shit for that," I say. "For that part of it, thank you." I mean it. "But the rest of it-"

"Oh for fuck's sake!" he groans. "You lie to me and it's still my fault because I didn't call you on it? Jesus H. Christ."

"Forget it, Damon. Just forget all this. It was a stupid idea. I'm going home." I try to pull away, but he's still got a death grip on my arm and I barely make it a step before he yanks me back. I'm pressed against his body again, and he's too close (_not close enough_).

"Not a fucking chance, Gilbert. You got to have your fun—now I get my answers. Why did you do it?" With him so close, there are too many distractions. Even though there's only sucking nothingness inside me again, my body hasn't forgotten how we spent the last ten minutes, and from the feel of things, neither has his. I need to think, need to formulate an answer, but I can't.

"I'll tell you, okay? Just let me go and let's talk about it like civilized people." Buy time. Buy space. I can get out of this, give him an answer he'll understand, make sure he never knows the truth (_about me, about him, about us_).

His eyes sweep across my face, lingering on my lips a beat too long, like they always do, before meeting my gaze again. "You know if you run, I'll catch you and we'll have to replay this whole scene, right? And that'll be boring as fuck."

I want to run. Every last cell in my body wants to run. I'll tear out of here and wash these curls out of my hair and scrub away the faint smell of smoke (_and Damon_) that clings to my skin. I want to pretend none of this ever happened. But if I shut him out and run back to that house full of ghosts, I'll spend night after night after night after _night _until forever alone. Hollow and colorless. But if I stay...maybe it won't have to be like that.

"I'm not going to run," I say with quiet determination. Not this time_. _Not yet, anyway.

He lets go of my arm but hovers for a second, like I might bolt anyway. I don't. I brush past him and shuffle a few feet away. I slide my back down a smooth tree trunk and sit in the fallen leaves. He settles to the ground opposite me, leaning against his own tree.

I wait. He waits. We sit for so long, the wildlife around us starts to come alive again, forgets the predators in their midst. At first it's a lone cricket, but then others join the call. Owls grumble to each other. In the distance, a deer picks its way through the scrub.

"Why?" It can barely be called a whisper, only the impression of a word, but the instant he speaks, all other sound disappears.

I pick up a crunchy maple leaf, stripping away the dead flesh while being careful not to damage the delicate stems. It's better than looking at him. I can't look at him. I know what he's asking, but I'm not ready to give the full truth. I don't even know the full truth yet (_I've always known_). So I take the easy way out (_I can't think about always_)_._ "I wanted to see if you—and Stefan- could tell the difference. It was hard enough before, but now that we're the same...I needed to know if we were the same in the ways that really mattered."

I sneak a peek at him. He's got his head tilted back, watching the branches toss overhead. "Okay. I'll buy that. So?"

"I'm not her." Whoever I am, it's not her. That much is clear. We aren't the same. I hope we never were (_it's okay to love them both_). I let the skeletal leaf tumble from my hand.

"Duh." He lowers his head and looks at me. "Now tell me what happened to you."

If there's any hope of getting back to myself, I have to tell him. I take a deep breath. "Nothing happened to me, Damon."

He slaps a hand against the ground."Stop _lying, _Elena" (_Most of all, you're lying to yourself._) "Something is wrong. When you looked at me, your eyes—Christ, they were so—" He's almost frantic, can't get the words out right. I don't know what he's talking about, but I can't listen to any more. He doesn't understand.

"No. That's not what I meant." I'm trying to tell him, but it's all coming out in a tangled snarl. "What's wrong with me _is_ nothing." His lips part to speak again, but I don't give him the chance. I have to get this out, have to make him see. "I don't...I'm not Katherine, but I'm not me, either. I'm not anything." How can I explain? He'll think I'm crazy, that I'm still lying. Vampires aren't supposed to be like this; I'm supposed to be me but _more, _not less. "I'm just-"

"Empty," he says with quiet intensity.

I blink at him. "Exactly. How did you know?"

"Same way I knew you weren't Katherine," he mutters. "It's been like this since you turned?"

I nod, finding another leaf to tear into confetti. "My switch is broken." It's the only explanation that makes sense. Maybe it's like this for Katherine, too—maybe that's why she fills her life with sex and cruelty and something that's almost like love, because that's as close as she can get to feeling anymore. Maybe this is some kind of balancing punishment for doppelgangers who go vampire.

"Nope. Can't be." He's as cocky and confident as he's ever been, and my heart sinks.

"How would you know?" He can't be so sure. He doesn't know any better than I do. It can't be that simple.

"When you thought you'd killed that woman, did you care?"

"Of course I cared. I can't just go around killing people-"

"When you're switched off you can. And you do. Because it doesn't mean anything." I look up from my leafy destruction. He's got a knee propped up, one arm dangling casually over it. He's looking at me, but I'm pretty sure he's not really here right now. The moment passes and his eyes snap back into focus. "When that woman fell to the ground, you looked like someone just told you Christmas was canceled forever. You cared, and switched-off vamps can't care. That's the whole point."

He's so sure. So _sure_. And if anyone knows what it's like to be switched off...well, I remember what Damon was like when he came to town. And he was right, not a single death seemed to faze him. Not until he let it back in.

But the broken switch was my only theory. At least that made sense, that was rooted in something I knew and understood, at least a little. Now I don't know what's wrong with me, don't know how to fix it (_the answer's right in front of me. I just have to take it but I don't know how_)_._ If it was the switch, maybe I could have found it, learned how to turn it back on. But now forever looms, flat and gray.

"Oh," I say faintly. "Have you ever heard of this happening before? To other vampires?"

"No," he admits. So it's me that's broken. Not the switch. Just me. I wrap my arms around myself. "But until a year ago, I'd never heard of a Petrova doppelganger, either. Or werewolves or hybrids. There's not really a guidebook for all this supernatural shit. Maybe some vampires come back like this."

I nod, but I don't believe him. He shifts closer. I need him to keep his distance. He's only a few feet away now; I could stretch my arms out and touch him (_do it_).

"So let me try to understand your 'logic' here." Yes, he uses actual air quotes, because he's a dick. "You thought that by dolling yourself up like Katherine and taking a walk on the wild side, you might be able to...what? Find your way back to the land of the living with bitchiness and sluttiness?"

"Something like that," I mumble. It sounds so stupid when he says it. It made sense at the time. Kind of. Sort of.

"Huh." He picks at a smear of dried blood on the inside of his wrist. "And it didn't work." It's not a question. "You only got as far as hungry and horny."

(_Tell him, tell him it's not true, tell him you got what you wanted but then it was gone, tell him how he brought it back, how he reminded you of what it was like, reminded you who you are_)

I don't contradict him. I can't. I'm not ready. I don't know what it means, don't know why he made the world erupt. So instead, I choose to fight. Because that's what we do. It's who we are.

"That's not fair. You're the one who suggested hunting, even knowing who I really was. And you kissed me first."

"And you went south of the equator first," he fires back.

I pop to my feet, hands wadded into fists. I don't need this (_this is all I need_)_._ "You got your answers. You know why I did it. You know what's so _wrong _with me. Are we done?"

"No. We're not done. Sit down, Elena." There's not a trace of humor in his voice. No jokes. No yelling. No pretense. It's a quiet, urgent demand. And I can't say no. Maybe I don't want to say no, either. I sit. I watch him expectantly.

"Why didn't you go to Stefan? Why didn't you tell him?" It's that same tone as before, soft and hard, questioning and demanding.

I shake my head, but don't answer. What can I say? I chose Stefan. I love(_d?_) Stefan. But when I woke up, when the world changed, it wasn't right. The things I wanted didn't matter anymore. They weren't important. _He _was important, but everything was so different. And being with him like that, leaning on his unending goodness and kindness when I couldn't give him any back? I couldn't do that to him. It wasn't right.

The silence is brutal. Finally, he speaks. "We-" he stops, shakes his head. "_He _could've helped you. He's good at that, listening and helping people through their problems; I think it's all the _Dr. Phil _he watches. But if he could make Caroline into a functioning vampire, he can do it with anyone." He gives a single breath of laughter. "Except himself, apparently."

"But he couldn't see me as a vampire. None of them could." To be fair, I wouldn't let them. Stefan, Matt, Jeremy, they all blamed themselves for what happened to me. I needed more than anything for them to see I was the same, for them to remember how to act around me, how just to smile at me. So I desperately pretended to be the old Elena while pushing them away with both hands so they couldn't see that there was nothing behind the facade.

Maybe Caroline knew, but with Tyler and Klaus, she's had her own stuff to deal with. And I never let Damon close enough to see, not until tonight. "I needed everyone to think I was the same. I needed them not to..." I watch the sky. Dawn's coming. The sky's no lighter, but I can smell the sun, like burned hamburger.

"You needed them not to what?" he asks.

"Not to mourn me." It didn't help. They did anyway. Or maybe they just felt guilty for their own roles in all of it; I'm not sure. Nothing I did worked, but I kept acting anyway. I couldn't add my own brokenness to their guilt, so I carried it alone.

"And there we have the whole fucking problem." I tear my eyes from the sky and blink at him. "You're not _dead._" He waves his hand breezily. "Well, biologically, sure, but that's a technicality. You're alive in the ways that matter, so stop acting like you're laying at the bottom of the goddamn river."

I laugh, but it's the unfunniest sound I've ever heard. "Oh! Why didn't I think of that? Problem solved. You're a miracle worker." As if it's so easy_. _As if he knows what this is like. As if he can help (_can't he?_).

"A for effort on the sarcasm, C-minus for execution. But I do appreciate the effort, because fuck, haven't seen _that _in a while."

There's a glimmer of something hot behind my eyes, a rush of red heat down the sides of my skull. "Go to hell, Damon. You don't know what it's like. I've been doing my best, and—"

"No," he says flatly. "Cooping yourself up in that house is not 'trying_,' _Elena. Hiding from everyone who loves you is not 'doing your best.' If this was how you were going to live, you never should've transitioned at all." He twists his head to the side, mouth contorted in a grimace. "Fuck. That came out wrong. I didn't-"

I cut him off. Hard. "Yes you did. I've been this way two months, Damon. And because I need a little time, you think I should have rolled over and died? Again?" My voice is getting louder, ringing off the trees. "How much _living _did you do when you turned, when you thought Katherine was dead?"

He's silent. I think I made my point, but the victory doesn't mean much. He draws something in the dirt with his finger. "None. I didn't live a single day for half a century." He looks back to me. "Who'm I kidding? I didn't live a single day for a century and a half." (_That means he didn't live until—no. Can't think. Not now_) "Which is why I want better for you."

"I tried, Damon. This was me trying. And it didn't work. None of it works." Maybe I was imagining things. Maybe there was nothing there after all. Maybe that spark, that rush, was just wishful thinking (_real, it was so real_).

He watches me, utterly still. Nothing moves, not even his eyes. Then, slowly, he shakes his head. "There's one thing you haven't tried," he says reluctantly.

"Tell me." Whatever it is, I'll try. I have to keep trying. And if I can't, I'll throw my pretty blue ring in the quarry and let the sun burn feeling back into me.

He smiles, and it's sweet and hopeless and hopeful and a thousand other things without names. "Stefan. The one you never unfell from, remember? The one you love." At first, I think he's throwing my own (_cruel, harsh, true and untrue_) words back at me. But it's not an accusation, just a fact. He picks up a vividly orange leaf, spinning the stem in his fingers, faster and faster. "You haven't tried him."

My heart is in my throat (_his is on his sleeve_). He can't be suggesting this. Damon can't be telling me to go back to his brother. But he is. All because he thinks Stefan might be able to help me.

I swallow. Shake my head. "I can't. After the way I treated him—I ran away, I treated him like garbage. He would never take me back." I'm not even sure who I'm talking about anymore.

"He'll get over it. Trust me." The orange leaf stops spinning. It flutters away as Damon stands. "Stefan's a sanctimonious, gloomy son of a bitch, but he loves you. And you love him." The words come between clenched teeth, as if each one is physically painful. But he means them. He believes them, even if he doesn't want to say them. "Love was the only thing that brought me back. If anything can fix you, that's it."

Love brought him back. My love. Love I don't (_didn't_) return.

Maybe he's right. Maybe love is what I need, maybe all my hiding and acting has been keeping me in the gray all these months. But maybe if I go back to Stefan, if I let that love seep into me little by little, I can remember. I can find my way back. Like Damon did.

Damon offers me his hand. I take it and he pulls me to my feet.

"Maybe," I say slowly. "Maybe I didn't try hard enough." But it should have been enough, shouldn't it? If someone's your soul mate, aren't they always your soul mate, no matter how you change (_he didn't see me, didn't know me, but-_)? Everything's muddled.

"It's not too late to start," he says. He tries to smile, but gives up halfway through. He doesn't let go of my hand. "You're still Elena Gilbert. He'll help you remember who you were—who you are. And he'll help you find who you can be." He kisses the back of my hand, lips soft and cold, eyes soft and bright (_I love you, and that's why I can't be selfish with you_).

There's a thaw, a shift, a change, a frantic burst of _everything, _but then he drops my hand. I reach for him, fumble for the right words, but it's too late. Just as color starts to creep back into the world, Damon turns and walks away.


	5. A Thousand Years and a Million Miles

_This will be a long author's note. Feel free to skip._

_It's another beginning and ending for Damon and Elena...and for me. In a way, it's so appropriate that I wrote Impostor at this time. Just as being Katherine helped Elena find herself, so "being" these characters helped me find my own, long-dormant voice. And that's why it's time to move on. _

_I've loved every single second I spent writing these guys, talking with you. Your reviews made my day-hell, some of 'em made my week. I've met some incredible reviewers, like onerepublicgirl (happy birthday!), afanoftvd, jade2099, skeezix. I've been inspired by amazing authors like ThreeJays and KKetura. And I've met true friends who did all that and a hell of a lot more, like WildYennifer, JWAB, and ElvishGrrl. Ladies, you mean a lot. Seriously._

_I'll still be in the community, reading and betaing and watching with the rest of you. And it's not impossible I'll be back some day-I love these characters so much. But my writing time has to go to other projects-has to go to things I can keep, I can put my name on, I can create. But thank you. None of it would have been possible without each and every one of you. Thank you._

_-Allison, 7/18/12_

* * *

Listen. Can you hear the swelling violins? See the doves dropping rose petals? That is how much love is oozing out of the boarding house right now. Stefan and Elena are back in sugary, fluffy, undeniably real love. There's no doubt that my brother's cavity-inducing affections have returned Elena to her default state, overflowing with compassion and guilt and martyrdom. True love saves the day and goodness reigns supreme.

Congratulations on a job well done, Salvatore. You are the world's best (not to mention most masochistic) matchmaker. I'm considering a sideline as a life coach after this successful endeavor, that's how good I am. I hope.

I walk up the drive. I probably should've stayed away longer; it's only been a month. After I figured out Elena's problem and helped her to see that Stefan is, as usual, the solution, I made a beeline for my car. Didn't even go into the house, didn't take anything with me. Just went. Because there in the woods, everything became so clear. Stefan was right. Elena made her choice—even if she didn't follow through with it, she made it—and my presence just fucked everything up. Maybe it's even my fault she wound up as that hollow, cracked shell in the first place.

I owe her—and him—a shot at happiness. I'm the guy who teaches her how to ambush motorists; he's the guy who'll teach her how to paint with all the colors of the wind or some shit. Her choice was always a no-brainer.

So for once in my life, I did the right thing. I gave them time to figure it out, to find a new rhythm and a new way of being together, let them figure out how they'll deal with their eating issues and their guilt issues and all their many, many _issues_. I stayed away for as long as I could, but I had to come back. It's only to pick up a couple of things—some books, some keepsakes, that killer bottle of Macallan '26 in the basement.

Yeah, that's bullshit. I had to see her, okay? I had to come back to make sure it worked, to make sure those empty places have filled. But it has to have worked. I know it worked.

They're probably canoodling on the couch right now, having a long, in-depth conversation about the ethics of hunting bunnies versus deer and how that reflects on their souls. Or else watching _Friday Night Lights _for the billionth time. Either way, she'll turn to me and smile and mouth "thank you" when Stefan can't see it. And I'll nod and grab the handful of things that matter to me and hit the road again. This time, I won't come back.

I brace myself and open the door.

There's not a single light; even the fireplace is cold and dark. They must be at her place. Well, that answers that question. The world is spinning back on its axis because Stefan and Elena have rediscovered their forever love. Perfect. I'll do a drive-by on my way out of town, maybe catch a glimpse of the happy couple through her window. It'll be easier this way. For everyone, but mostly me.

My footsteps ring off the walls as I head directly for the drink cart. It's dusty; Stefan's such a pig. This house is going to fall apart without me. At least Zach knew his way around a can of Pledge. I glug two fingers of Knob Creek into a highball glass and-

"You're back."

I almost drop the glass. Only supernatural reflexes and the sure knowledge that I'm going to _need _this drink in a minute keep me from splashing bourbon everywhere. She scared the ever-loving shit out of me. Not that I'll let her know that.

I only get a glimpse of her, mostly from behind. She's sitting on the couch, her red Converses propped up on the coffee table. There's a crumpled blood bag on the side table, along with a Biology textbook and a stack of magazines promising to teach you how to drive your man wild with just your tongue and some dental floss. Her hair is straight. Thank God.

It's all I can do not to run over to her, grab her face in my hands and stare and search until I'm satisfied she's whole again. But that's not the way to play this. Not when she's patched things up with Stefan. That's not my place anymore. Never really was. And to be honest, I'm not ready to face her yet, because the only thing worse than seeing that those empty places inside of her have filled up with him again is seeing that they haven't.

I'm fucked no matter what I do, so I play it cool. Scratch that, I play it _cold_. "Hey," I say like I just ran out for a pack of smokes. Like this is all no big deal. I mosey (I hope it looks like a mosey and not a scurry) over to the bookshelves. I had a whole list of titles I had to make sure to take with me, that I couldn't live without. But now I can't remember a single one. I blindly pluck a book off the shelf.

"Where have you been? You just left," she says. I half expect her to pull out that "you promised you'd never leave me" line again, but she doesn't. Because deep down, we both know I "just left" for her.

"Took a drive. California. Beaches, bikinis, and babes. Good times were had by all," I say with my best smirk. And it's true, I _did _go to California. Multiple times. My itinerary for the month was simple: drive until you hit ocean. Then turn around and do it again. And again and again. I lost count around the seventh cross-country trek.

I strain my ears, but I don't hear Stefan thumping around upstairs. That's weird. Isn't it weird? It's late; if she's here, he should be. I gulp down my liquid courage and thunk the empty glass on the shelf. "Where's Stef? Emergency hair gel run?"

"He's around. Out. He'll be back. I tried to call you," she says. She sounds okay. I think she sounds okay. It's kind of weird she hasn't come over to me yet—Elena usually had a hug for me. Or fuck, a touch on the shoulder. Something. She would have done something. But then, I usually would have made eye contact—or at least thrown an eye thing her way- but I still can't. I choose another book at random and add it to my mystery stack.

"I lost my phone." Which again, technically true. I always try to tell her the technical truth. I lost my phone when I chucked it into the James River. She wouldn't stop calling. Again and again in that hour after I left her in the woods, she called. And I knew if she called just one more time, I'd answer. And then I'd come home and ruin everything. She didn't need me. She had him. She was supposed to have him, so where the fuck is he?

"Oh." There's silence. I glance down at the books in my arms. I have volume _N _of the 1992 _Encyclopedia Britannica_ and a copy of the Book of Mormon. I love Mormon missionaries—no caffeine, no alcohol. Pure. Man, I'd love to find two of those uptight little fuckers, one for Elena and one for me, and show her what it's like when the blood's clean and-

What the fuck is wrong with you, Salvatore? It's never going to happen. It can't. Because you're leaving. As soon as you can man up, turn around, and see _her _staring back at you, real and complete, you're gone. Which you're going to do any minute now.

Any minute now.

"Damon?" The leather couch creaks. Her bare feet whisk along the thick pile of the Persian rug. I stare at the bookshelf. Why the fuck does Stefan have every work in the Dan Brown oeuvre? His taste in literature is as shit as his taste in-

"Stefan and I tried. I want you to know that. I know you think I've forgotten how, but no one could have tried harder to make it work than we did," she says softly, like she's afraid I might turn around and bite her head off. Which I intend to, as soon as this feeling of being drop kicked in the stomach passes.

This wasn't how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to be better; she was supposed to be _fine_; she was supposed to be with him. And none of those things are true.

I'm going to find him and _murder _him. He had one job. And it's the simplest job in the whole goddamn world. All my idiot brother had to do was love her. And he couldn't even do that.

The cover of the encyclopedia buckles in my hand. I shove both books back onto the shelf. I still don't look at her, because now I know what's waiting for me, that clawing, clutching _wrongness_. But I won't give up, even if she has.

"Try harder," I grit. "It's been a month, you two have literally forever to figure it out. Maybe go away, change of scenery. Up to your lake house, or-"

"It didn't work. It's never going to work with him. He and I both know that." Stefan has to be the answer. If his love couldn't fix her—if his love couldn't help her fix _herself—_then I don't know what to do. I didn't have a Plan B this time. I was so sure.

So much for the life coaching.

I fling one arm out, still too chickenshit to turn and face her. "Give me your phone."

She's wary, because she's not an idiot. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to call Stefan and find out where he is. Then I am going to grab him by his poofy hair and haul his ass here. Finally, I am going to lock the two of you in the dungeon until you figure this out." Christ. Do they need me for _everything_?

"You're not listening to me." There's a tremor in her voice, but that doesn't mean anything. Not a fucking thing. She's playing me again, messing with my head so I do what she wants and let her roll over and die, accept that this is her new normal. But I don't give a fuck what she wants; I need her back. "I love Stefan, but not in the right way. I don't know. But-"

I continue addressing the bookshelf, because I may literally be out of my fucking mind at this point. "Then we'll get Bonnie. Maybe it's a spell—Rebekah or Esther getting revenge. If the other thing didn't work, then something has to-"

"_Damon_," she says. She lays a hand on my shoulder but I shake it off. I can't handle her excuses or her touch right now. I just need to fix this. I will fix it_. _"I know what we—what _I_- need to do. There's one thing I haven't tried. But I'm pretty sure it'll work." She draws a long, rocky breath. "I know it'll work. Will you trust me?"

I shouldn't. There is not a single, solitary reason on this planet I should _ever _trust Elena Gilbert with anything. Every plan we make, she fucks up. Everything she touches, she destroys, up to and including herself. The girl is a walking disaster area in every conceivable way.

"What do you need?"

"For starters, I need you to look at me and stop avoiding me like I'm some kind of leper," she says. I can practically see her standing there, hands on her hips, lip plumped out in a pout that she'd never admit was a pout. Well. That's how she would have looked once upon a time.

If you're ever going to see her that way again, first you have to look at her, you pussy.

I steel myself, preparing for the annihilating, soul-obliterating nothingness I know will greet me. And then I turn.

Before I can do or say anything, before I can even get a good look at her, she reaches for me with both hands. They tremble. I'm afraid she's going to pull me in and kiss me (Seriously? _I'm _afraid of a kiss? From her? Fuck yes I am) and we'll have to relive that whole bit about how she can't fuck her way back to feeling. But she doesn't kiss me.

Painfully soft, her fingers brush my cheeks, smooth across my lips. It's the gentlest touch you can imagine, but it sets off an electrical storm in my very bones. But I barely notice. All I can see is the light in her eyes, growing brighter by the second.

It isn't a shiny, easy light. It's a hushed light tinged with the deepest sadness imaginable, a weariness and dimness no child—no _person—_should know. But there's determination there, too. Warmth and strength, fire and steel. And maybe, all the way down at the bottom, a speck or two of happiness.

"Elena?" I ask, but it's her. I know it's her.

"I was right." She smiles. At first it flickers, but then it catches hold and it's real and it's _her _and it's just for me. "So were you."

She melts into me, and I can only stand here, stiff as a tin soldier. She lays her head on my shoulder and lets out this sigh. It's the kind of sigh you make when you slide into a hot bath after a long day. It's the kind of sigh you make when you're standing in the desert and someone gives you a drink of water. It's the kind of sigh you make when you come home after a journey of a thousand years and a million miles.

I don't—I'm not—I can't-

Damon. Shut up. Just hold her. Just love her.

So I do.

_The End. _


End file.
